The Bagman's Gambit
by Epicurus
Summary: Years after her graduation, Kim Possible sees a face on the news that she never expected to see again. Currently on indefinite hiatus while I work on other projects.


A/N: This is (pretty obviously) a separate universe from _Scenes from a Life_. As always, Kim Possible and associated characters are the property of Disney. Original ideas are my own and are distributed under the Creative Commons attribution-non-commercial license.

The Bagman's Gambit

Prologue: On the Lam from the Law

* * *

Kim Possible kicked the door of her apartment shut behind her, shaking her head. A shower of snow and melted droplets came raining from her wool hat and scarf as she set a bag of groceries down on the tile floor. She unwound her scarf and snatched off her hat before shucking her coat and hanging the entire damp, snow-crusted mess on a hook in the entryway.

She bent down and hefted the groceries, kicking off her sensible black boots as she did. Padding into the small kitchen of her Anacostia apartment, Kim flicked on the lights as she went. It was a small suite with bad lighting and narrow halls, but she'd managed to furnish the place tastefully enough and the crime in the area wasn't unmanageably bad. She set the bag of groceries down on her small kitchen table before lifting her shirt and unstrapping the waistband holster in the small of her back.

Kim gave her gun an unimpressed look. She didn't especially like carrying it, but regs were regs. She ejected the magazine and the chambered round, which she carefully slotted into the top of the clip before locking gun and clip in the box on the kitchen counter. That nightly task complete, she unpacked her groceries mechanically. Bread, eggs, milk, ham and sliced cheese. Two boxes of Chinese takeout were her dinner, and once she stowed away her groceries she popped open the styrofoam containers and snapped the chopsticks in two so that she could use them.

She sat down on one of the low-backed chairs at her table and started eating, her hand mechanically finding the television remote that controlled the small set on her counter. It was angled to face the chair that Kim was sitting in now, and she flipped on the TV to catch the news.

"–_still no word on the dramatic shootout that occurred on the steps of the United States Capitol Building this afternoon_." Kim sat up mid-chew, her eyes wide. She swallowed, suddenly much more interested than usual in the ten-o'clock news. "_At around five-thirty PM, Capitol Police cornered a fleeing suspect flagged by the C.I.A. on the National Mall and ordered her to stand down. Refusing to comply, the suspect fled to the Capitol Building, where she was quickly surrounded on the front steps. The suspect then engaged the officers in a gunfight, killing one and wounding another. In an incredible turn, the suspect was able to escape the police cordon before the C.I.A.'s on-duty officers could respond._"

Kim had pushed her food away completely and was staring transfixed at the screen, which showed several squadcars blocking the steps of the Capitol, where a lone figure crouched behind the balustrade occasionally squeezed off shots at a pair of officers to the right of the cordon. Eventually the gunwoman–the figure was clearly female–got a lucky hit and one of the officers went down, shortly followed by his partner.

In time with the newscaster's narration, the figure darted from cover and, displaying the kind of acrobatics Kim hadn't seen regularly in years, sprinted and dove for the hole in the cordon. Despite what was evidently heavy fire, the woman slipped away offscreen.

Kim had watched the video play out with a growing feeling of physical illness. Even with the low resolution of the video, she recognized the woman's moves, her graceful jumps and rapid, precise sprint. She would know that woman anywhere, and in the last few months she had longed to catch another glimpse of her in a crowd. Just to know if she was okay.

Apparently not.

The feed cut back to the newscasters, who were shaking their heads in the professional condemnation that accompanied their job. Kim wondered if they were trained in it.

"_The suspect has been identified by the C.I.A. as one Shego, last name unknown._" A picture appeared in the top right of the screen before growing to fill it. The identification was clearly correct, and the picture showed Shego in what Kim had always considered mufti–civilian clothing rather than her iconic catsuit. She was in mid sprint and looking over her shoulder at the camera, black hair flying wildly and long black coat billowing. To Kim, she looked like a movie star in an action flick.

There were bruises on her face, ugly blotches of darker green on her cheekbones and around her one visible eye. Blood, almost black in the bad photograph, spilled down her lip, and her nose might have been broken. Kim fought down nausea.

"_She is considered armed, and extremely dangerous. If encountered, she is to be reported to the police immediately. She is absolutely not to be approached._"

_Oh, Shego. What did they do to you?_ She surprised herself when she felt a hot tear roll down her cheek. _Why did you kill those cops? What are you still running from?_


End file.
